Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
CAMERON
After a year in Sicily's sun-scorched refugee camp—where I'd bandaged blistered feet, delivered babies in makeshift tents, and held the hands of dying children—I still woke each morning with purpose burning in my chest. My hands would tremble with fatigue as I stitched wounds by lamplight, listening to the soft whimpers of children separated from parents during desperate sea crossings.
Yet each small victory— a fever broken, a smile returned—reminded me why I chose medicine.
Even on the worst days, when the Mediterranean washed another body ashore or when medical supplies ran dangerously low, I felt alive knowing each suture I placed mattered.
And if sometimes, during those rare quiet moments beneath star-filled skies, my mind wandered to Tally's emerald eyes or the possibility of a child with her dark hair and smile and somebody else’s stubborn chin... well, I buried those thoughts beneath tomorrow's patient charts.
But it's time to go home, and my stomach knots with a tension I can't explain.
I want to see Tally—her wild dark hair, those green-blue eyes that flash when she's angry, the curve of her tattooed shoulders.
Even after all these months in Sicily, her image hasn't faded.
When I close my eyes, I can still trace the outline of the phoenix rising up her forearm, still hear that throaty laugh.
That's how I know what I feel is real, at least for me.
The ache in my chest when I think of her hasn't diminished with distance or time.
It might not be real for her—she might have forgotten me entirely—but it burns in me like a fever.
So, after a grueling 16-hour flight where my knees cramped against the seat in front of me and the recycled air left my throat parched, I'm home again.
My sprawling Brentwood house with its gleaming marble countertops and cathedral ceilings suddenly seems as cold and empty as a mausoleum.
It's because I've spent the last year in dust-covered canvas tents that flapped in the Mediterranean wind, sharing cramped quarters with 7 other doctors whose snores and whispers became as familiar as my own heartbeat.
We worked 12-hour days under buzzing fluorescent lights, our scrubs stained with sweat, blood, and spilled coffee, then unwound by eating lukewarm MREs, drinking whatever booze we could find, and playing cards on upturned supply crates until our eyes burned.
After that kind of raw, visceral chaos—that kind of purpose—winding down to a gigantic empty house with nothing but the hum of the central air and the ticking of an antique grandfather clock just seems soul-crushingly depressing and lonely.
Plus, I've got nothing but time on my hands. I quit the ER before my deployment to Sicily, and my Sports Medicine fellowship doesn't kick off until early next year. Six months of freedom—or six months of staring at my ceiling. Depends how you look at it.
I slip on my leather jacket and head out that night to Indigo, the dimly lit jazz club where I can lose myself in music for the open mic night.
I need the press of bodies tonight, the clink of glasses and murmur of conversation drowning out the hollow echo in my chest. This emptiness has shadowed me since Alecia and Stephanie were killed in that accident, but now it's a gaping wound, raw and throbbing, because Tally—with her vibrant laugh and constellation of tattoos—carved herself into my life only to vanish.
My phone sits heavy in my pocket, screen blank where her name should be, my dozen messages floating unanswered in digital limbo. And somewhere across town, she's cradling another man's child, tiny fingers wrapped around her slender wrist.
In Sicily, the endless parade of desperate faces and makeshift medical tents kept the pain at bay—twelve-hour days of sweat-soaked scrubs and the metallic tang of blood on my tongue left no room for heartache.
But now, beneath these familiar city lights, I can finally name the ache behind my ribs.
My heart isn't just broken—it's shattered.
I nurse a whiskey neat, then another, as regulars drift over to my corner booth—Sal with his perpetual five o'clock shadow, Marlene whose bracelets jangle with every gesture, and old Pete who still wears the same faded Coltrane t-shirt.
The amber lights of Indigo cast everyone in a honey glow while saxophone notes curl through the pristine air of the club.
This place feels like my version of the Cheers Bar from TV—most faces light up when I walk in.
The bartender slides my usual across without asking, and the manager keeps glancing at the baby grand in the corner, his eyebrows raised in silent question.
After a year away, they're hungry to hear me play again, and my fingers are already twitching with muscle memory.
But I don' t feel like playing tonight. I slouch against the bar, nursing a whiskey neat, letting the amber liquid burn my throat while I scan the dimly lit room.
The open mic stretches for an hour, the stage bathed in blue light that makes everyone look like they're drowning.
I watch a girl with dreadlocks coax haunting melodies from her cello, a middle-aged man in a rumpled suit who makes his saxophone cry, and then the house band takes over— piano, sax, upright bass, and drums, all gleaming under the spotlight.
And then Marisa steps onto the stage, which almost makes my glass of whiskey slip through my fingers in shock.
Her silver bangles catch the spotlight as her fingers dance across the keys, first in gentle ripples, then in cascading torrents.
When the saxophonist launches into an improvised solo, she shadows him, note for note, then spins his melody into something entirely new.
The bassist grins, accepting her challenge, and soon they're trading phrases like boxers trading jabs – quick, precise, relentless.
Tally had mentioned her mother played, but this isn't playing – it's breathing music. It's alchemy.
My chest tightens watching her hands – hands so like her daughter's. Each chord progression twists the knife deeper, a reminder of the woman whose skin I've memorized but whose heart remains frustratingly out of reach.
She catches my eye across the room, smiles, and nods. I return the gesture.
After an hour, the band takes a break, and Marisa makes her way over to me. "Cameron," she says. "You're back."
"I am," I nod. "Your piano playing is incredible. When did you start performing here?"
"Just a month ago," she says. "Tally surprised me with a baby grand, and it's like my fingers remembered what to do.”
A baby grand in that tiny apartment? Where would it fit?
Marisa soon answers that question. “We found this adorable 1920s bungalow in Echo Park.
" She sweeps her hand through the air. "You should see it—front porch, sloped attic ceilings, original hardwoods everywhere.
I swear you can almost hear the ghosts of flappers laughing with their cigarette holders, dancing until dawn.
There's this magnificent pepper tree in the backyard that must've been just a sapling when the house was new. Now it towers over everything. Perfect compromise for Tally—she was dreading suburban life, but this way she gets a real house without leaving the city. No more neighbors stomping overhead or complaining when the baby cries. And it’s close to her studio. Best of all worlds for Tally.”
Tally moved into a house after her baby was born. It made sense—her old apartment would have felt like a shoebox with both her and her mother tripping over each other while trying to care for a newborn.
I nod. "Well. Tell Tally I say hi."
She hesitates, her gaze locked with mine.
Something flickers behind her eyes—a question, maybe, or a confession—as she studies my face.
Her lips part, then press together, once, twice.
I arch an eyebrow, silently urging her forward, but whatever courage she'd gathered dissolves with a small shake of her head.
"I'll tell Tally I saw you," she murmurs.
Then she's gone, swallowed by the sea of bodies around us.